


but if i want, i want for you

by ethia



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Post-Season/Series 02, Smut, episode tag: s02e22 God Mode, mild D/s untertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Indulge me, John?”</p>
<p>It's no more than a breathy whisper, but there's a flare in the charge between them, the low tone of Harold's voice like a lick of fire under John's skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but if i want, i want for you

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Messrs Finch and Reese, and since there is no plot, I don't own that, either.

+++

 

For all that they're somewhat giddy with the fact that there's a new number, they resolve it in just a few hours, Finch keeping close tabs on John over the comms at all times. His voice is a steady presence in John's ear, all soft cadences and calm breathing, his silences filled with the click-clack of his typing and sometimes, a soothing hum.

 

Back in sync, old times all over. But there's a current underneath, lacing their conversation, a sort of buzz right there under John's skin. He wonders if Harold feels it, too, worries at it even now with that analytic mind of his, a new puzzle to be turned over, the solution elusive for the time being. The thought makes him grin.

 

He feels tethered, grounded again in a way he hasn't been for days. Still he finds himself fighting an urge to hurry back to the library, weaving his way instead through the late afternoon traffic with all the patience he can muster. Harold is safe and sound, busily shuffling about his work space, striking up an idle chat when John falls silent for too long, filling him in on the loose ends he's tying up just then.

 

He's still doing that when John meets him half an hour later, releasing a breath at the sight of Harold neatly filing away their number's picture and background information. This gets him a sharp glance from under a raised eyebrow, Harold holding his gaze for a fraction too long before he speaks, a cut-off little breath preceding his words, like he's decided to change tack on a whim.

 

“Why don't you get comfortable for a moment, Mr. Reese, while I wrap things up here?” He pauses to look John over, then finds his gaze again, one corner of his mouth pinched tight. John knows he looks unkempt, his stubble having grown out, tired lines around his eyes and though he really should not, he basks in Harold's concern, his mouth quirking once, hopeful, before he manages to smother it.

 

“Any plans for tonight?” he asks casually, grabbing a book from a nearby shelf. He seats himself in the armchair he scavenged some time ago from one of the reading rooms. It creaks under his weight, the leather stiff with age, and it takes some navigating to get comfortable in it with his legs stretched out in front of him.

 

“I thought that maybe we could,” Harold says, slowly, his hands curled around the edge of his desk as though for support, "unwind together. Spend some time. That is, if you're not too exhausted."

 

Harold's expression is wide open, vulnerable to John's scrutiny. He takes it all in, the soft lilt of worry, that ever present concern for John's well-being, and the unmistakable rise at the end of the sentence that betrays the hidden question, the fear of rejection John can relate to so well. He feels suffused with warmth, his smile for Harold quick and easy as he answers.

 

“I would like that.”

 

It's difficult to make his voice carry all the way over to Harold, it's suddenly so tight with emotion. John's fingers flex against the book's edges once, eager to move, to touch, so he smoothes them over the open pages, his ears growing warm. He wants to duck his head but doesn't, watches instead as Harold gives a little nod, the tightness about his mouth less pronounced, before he turns abruptly to finish his work.

 

“I'll be quick, then,” he murmurs, and John lets himself be soothed by the softness in Harold's voice. He tries to focus on the book in his lap, eyes heavy with the exhaustion he's kept at bay for so long. His shoulders want to sag so he lets them, settling his weight deeper into the chair, his half-unfocused gaze on Harold at his desk.

 

The next thing he knows, his eyes snapping open, is Harold's hand resting lightly on the side of his neck, tips of his fingers right above John's pulse point. A solid presence right there behind John, close enough for John to be aware of the warmth of his body, and the oh so familiar scent of his cologne that fills John with a sweet, indistinct longing. He tries to breathe it away, shush it back to its hiding place but it's persistent, with Harold so near, so available.

 

“Still alive here, Harold,” he rasps, and that's a first, Harold sneaking up on him like this, invading his personal space so deliberately. Touching him, too, and John isn't above leaning into that touch, even if it seems to have outlived its purpose. Harold doesn't take away his hand, though, but rests his other on John's shoulder, a comforting weight. John, daring, lets his head rest against the soft press of Harold's chest, and feels the small sigh Harold gives as he does.

 

“Fortuitously so, John.” And he can't help the way his pulse jumps under Harold's fingers as he lifts his hand from John's shoulder to gently rake his fingers through John's hair, making him arch into Harold further. “Would you, kindly, consider offering me a lift home?”

 

That's stiffly formal, even by Harold's standards, especially given how close they are, but John's pulse just flutters wildly, because Harold isn't asking, he's offering, and it's entirely up to John how much he wants to take.

 

“Yes. Yes, I would,” he manages, with Harold's fingers tangled in his hair, and John wants to stay like this forever, under the safety of Harold's hands, wants it so keenly he can't breathe or speak around it. He makes a small sound instead, a desperate sliver of noise that makes Harold pull him closer, his fingers squeezing, holding John close against the steady rise and fall of his chest for much too short a time before he slips his hands away.

 

“I'll go get Bear, then.”

 

It's a short walk, as John has always guessed, but long enough for Bear to stretch his legs and John to repeatedly bump shoulders with Harold, or brush their hands together, all safely under the pretense of Bear entangling them with his leash.

 

Harold's home turns out to be a loft apartment, one generously spaced room divided into neat sub-compartments, no doors to bar the view. An open kitchen, a work station not unlike the one at the library, a bedroom with an adjoining bath. At the center of the room, a leather daybed, big and luxurious, with a clear line of sight into each corner of the place.

 

Bear trots away as soon as Harold unleashes him, settling himself in his bed right next to Harold's desk. Harold pulls the door shut behind them, with John barely inside, then moves his fingers up the sleeves of John's jacket in silent request.

 

“Here, let me,” he says, smiling up at John, eyes warm and clear. Not nervous, and John lets out a breath, his head bent just so, bringing his mouth to Harold's temple, ever so slowly, giving Harold plenty of time.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, unable to push himself any further, to make the sentence go on like he wants to, for bringing me here, for letting me be this close, but Harold gets it, like he always does, he's smart that way, and John's smile almost hurts when Harold curls his fingers around John's wrist and squeezes, gently.

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

As a matter of fact, John feels starved, but it's not food that he craves, and somehow, Harold catches that, too, the corners of his mouth lifting, however briefly. He looks younger like that, less tense, and John feels a fierce wave of tenderness for him, painful and sweet all at once. He drags his fingers across Harold's palm, lacing their fingers for just a moment, leaning closer to press his lips to the soft hair at the side of Harold's face, a chaste caress.

 

“No. You?”

 

“Maybe later,” Harold says, and he sounds like he's smiling. They step apart, Harold shifting to invite John further into his home. "Do make yourself at home, John. I'll just be a minute."

 

He slides his own jacket off, then pushes up his sleeves, a sight that makes John stare before he remembers to look away, ears going red. It's so rare for Harold to reveal anything of himself that John can't help but soak up even the most minute detail. Like the fine dusting of dark hair on Harold's arms, or the way his limp is more pronounced than just half an hour ago, the added stiffness in his shoulders.

 

Reluctant to let Harold out of his sight, John pushes his curiosity for the minutiae of Harold's home aside and sits down on the daybed, content for now to watch Harold getting Bear settled in for the night. Before long, Harold joins him, stepping up behind John, mimicking their positions from earlier at the library. John lets himself relax into Harold, humming when he slides a hand through John's hair, his other gently cupping the side of John's face, thumb grazing over the soft fuzz of his grown-out stubble.

 

“You like the beard? I thought I saw you looking,” John murmurs, swallowing a moan when Harold's thumb draws a lazy circle on his cheek.

 

“It's not my place to comment on your fashion choices, John,” Harold says, like he isn't cradling John close right now,” nor on the fact that one might scarcely call it a beard yet, but, yes, I like it.”

 

He bends then to press a kiss to the top of John's head, his fingers sliding over the back of John's neck and under the collar of his shirt, hand splayed between John's shoulder blades. His gentle tenderness is almost too much to bear; John turns his head to kiss the flat of Harold's palm, presses his mouth to Harold's skin with all the devotion he's capable of, too shaken to speak, but hoping that Harold will somehow know this, too.

 

“John...”

 

He thinks about pulling Harold down right next to him, making both of them stretch out, legs tangled, Harold cradled in his embrace, but Harold has his own pace, his own time, and John has no desire to interfere with it, now that he knows where they're going. He nips at the sensitive skin of Harold's palm, then follows it with another kiss, and a short little lick that draws a gasp from Harold. Harold's fingers flex on John's back, then drag a little lower, questing, entreating. John presses into it, moaning against Harold's palm, and Harold bends deeper still, mouth to John's ear, his breath hot and quick.

 

“If you would like the tour of the place, Mr. Reese.”

 

John bites back a grin, because this is Harold's way of moving things to the bedroom, and if he likes to do things a little sideways, then John will go along with it, the same way he always does, with Harold.

 

The bedroom is something, with a lush bed in its middle and floor-to-ceiling windows making up a whole side of the room, giving a splendid view of the river, reflecting red and silver in the early evening light. John raises a brow at the nakedness of it all, the sheer vulnerability, so unlike everything he has pieced together about Harold in the past two years.

 

“I like the vista,” Harold says, shrugging his shoulders. Then he smiles, mouth quirked in amusement, boyish almost, and at the flip of a switch the windows turn opaque, shielding them from view. “But it does come with a privacy setting.”

 

“It _is_ a nice view,” John says, eyes lidded, his lashes shielding him from the intensity of Harold's gaze on him. Harold gives another smile, warm, slow, and with a small gesture from him the windows go clear again. Daring, and who would have thought? John smiles in return as Harold brushes past him to take off his glasses and place them, neatly folded, on the bedside table. On his way back around John he pauses, his mouth to John's ear, one hand placed ever so lightly on John's arm.

 

“Indulge me, John?”

 

It's no more than a breathy whisper, but there's a flare in the charge between them, the low tone of Harold's voice like a lick of fire under John's skin. Harold pulls back just far enough to look John in the eye, his gaze appraising as he waits. John nods once, acutely aware of the warm flush across his cheeks, and the accompanying sharp tug of want in his gut.

 

“Yes,” he says, thrilled by the way Harold's fingers tighten on his arm before he lets go, apparently satisfied.

 

“Sit down on the bed, John."

 

John isn't fooled by the softness of the words for one second; he's been trained to know a command when he hears it. He sits, his hands restless on the smooth fabric before he stills them against his thighs, and Harold, with another of those small, slow smiles, nudges his knees apart so he can stand between John's splayed legs. Harold runs his fingers through John's hair again, his thumbs caressing the sensitive skin behind John's ears until he moans with pleasure. He tips his head back, further into the cradle of Harold's hands, inviting him closer.

 

Harold follows, brings his mouth to John's face, his lips drawing a maddening path from the shell of his ear to his nose and back again before finally, _finally_ he finds John's mouth. John, eager, leans in for a kiss, but Harold pulls back, out of John's reach, his fingers tightening slightly at the nape of John's neck, not quite pulling, not quite a request. My terms, John, and he groans as he lets Harold take command of the situation, of him, his cock hardening rapidly, leaving him breathless.

 

John waits for Harold to move in again, the knowing look in Harold's eyes going straight to his groin. This time, he makes himself go still under the pressure of Harold's lips, his mouth falling open on an inarticulate sound as Harold licks a wet, hot path along the arch of his lips. Harold's kiss is firm and sure, his tongue tracing John's mouth so thoroughly that it takes a tug on his arm for him to catch up to the fact that Harold has started to undress him, clever fingers removing his cuff links even now.

 

Together, they make short work of John's shirt and undershirt, Harold's fingers mapping out as much of John's skin as he can reach, making John moan softly into their kisses. He raises a hand to the hem of Harold's shirt, fingers tugging lightly at the expensive fabric and more firmly when Harold doesn't stop him. John deftly unbuttons his vest and shirt, even with the distraction of Harold's mouth slanted hungrily over his own.

 

They're both breathing raggedly by the time Harold strips off his undershirt, and John's heart races at the sight of him: lips red and wet from their kisses, his hair ruffled, his face unobstructed without the thick frame of his glasses in the way. His eyes shining with emotion, a tenderness that, for some unfathomable reason, is directed solely at John. It's almost too much to see Harold so open, so naked, and so John presses his face to the soft skin of Harold's stomach, overwhelmed. He mouths at the heat of it, sighing when Harold's arms come back around him, holding him in, skin to warm skin.

 

Harold rakes his fingers through the fine hair on John's neck, already curling with sweat. John moans, dragging his mouth lower, enticed by the warm musk of Harold's arousal in his nose. He feels Harold tremble under his lips, muscles clenching and unclenching as John bends his head ever lower, licking a wet trail across Harold's skin. When he reaches the waistband of Harold's pants, there's a tug on the back of his head, the pull of Harold's fingers in his hair insistent. John resists, if only for the thrill of receiving another, sharper tug that makes his cock twitch in his pants. He grunts, fingers clenching where they rest on Harold's waist, and eventually pulls back, breathing heavily.

 

Harold is looking at him with something like regret in his eyes; he brings one hand to John's chin, gently holding him in place as he speaks.

 

“I'm afraid not, John,” he says, voice ragged. “Not this time.” He licks his lips, his thumb dragging slowly across John's chin, like a promise. “I want to give you more than that.”

 

John knows that, if he were to lean in again, Harold would let him, it's right there in the arch of his body toward John's. He's holding back, banking his own desire for John's sake, and John closes his eyes against the sudden swell of emotion in his chest. Another swipe of Harold's thumb soothes him enough to nod into Harold's grip, his eyes falling open again as Harold tips his head back. Tips the both of them back so far, in fact, that John has to reach out behind them to steady them both, keep them from toppling over and onto the bed.

 

Harold crushes his mouth to John's, fingers tight in his hair, until John is completely pliant under him, arms trembling from the strain of their combined weight. When he pulls back, John goes after him, managing to steal a series of smaller, lighter kisses on his way, making Harold laugh into his mouth before he brings enough distance between them to be out of John's reach.

 

“I think I'd quite like to have you naked now,” Harold says, in that same determined tone of voice John's so very familiar with, only it's never sent shivers down his spine like this before. Harold watches, of course he does, eyes intent on John's every move. It's humbling, somehow, to be the sole focus of Harold's attention, like nothing else could be more important to him right now.

 

“Where do you want me?” John asks once he's stripped, barely resisting to touch himself just to see Harold's reaction to it. Harold is staring, looking John over from head to toe, mouth parted in silent appreciation.

 

“On the bed,” he says, eyes snapping up to John's, not even attempting to hide the naked hunger in his gaze. “On your side, for now.”

 

John complies, taking a sharp breath when Harold starts to take off the rest of his own clothes, laying himself bare to John's eyes. There's no hiding, not even in the fading daylight, but Harold seems completely unperturbed, relaxed even under John's scrutiny. John takes it all in with a sweeping glance, each faint trace of scar tissue on the back of Harold's neck, the small of his back, the curving line of his hip. The tug and pull of muscle under skin as Harold limps to the bedside table, taking from the top drawer everything they will need later on. The curve of his cock where it rises to the softness of his belly, tangible proof of how much he wants John, and it's there that John's eyes rest longest, making him smile at Harold as he settles down next to him.

 

Harold pulls him close, brings them skin to skin, the heat of him shocking in that first moment of contact. John groans as Harold licks into his mouth, tugging John half on top of him, gasping when their cocks brush together. It makes John buck his hips, all delicious heat and friction, Harold's mouth wet and hot under his own.

 

“Give us a hand, John,” Harold says, lacing their fingers to guide John's hand where he wants it, making him wrap it around both their cocks. John grunts, his body arching into the sensation, all instinct now.

 

“Yes,” he hisses, “ _God_.”

 

“No need to rush, John,” Harold rasps, one of his legs tangled between John's and it feels so good, the hard, hot press of his cock against John's. “Just keep things interesting.”

 

His tone is meant to be soothing, John knows, but his breath is hot and moist and just adds to the building pressure low in John's gut, the tension at the base of his spine. He rests his head next to Harold's for a moment, panting heavily, willing himself to comply. When it feels safe to move again, he gives a slow, experimental drag of his hand along the length of their cocks, rewarded by Harold's gentle kiss and the sweep of his hand, warm and slick, along the curve of John's ass.

 

“Harold,” he breathes, and again at the sweet pressure of Harold's finger sliding into him. Not his first time, either, judging by the way he curls his finger and _oh_ , slides the rough pad of it right over John's prostrate, making him buck his hips then push back, greedy for more.

 

“Shh,” Harold makes, breathing a kiss to the side of John's face before licking at the salt-taste of his skin. “I'll get you there, eventually.”

 

John moans his assent, his body arching for Harold, trapped between the sweat-slick heat of Harold's body underneath him, and the delicious rub of his finger inside of John, and then the added stretch and press of a second one. He tries to build a steady rhythm, a concerted effort of his hand and hips, but Harold's mouth, the wet heat of it where he sucks on John's throat, makes him break pattern every so often. And all the while, Harold is hot and hard and throbbing in John's hand, the push of his hips as urgent as the press of his lips on John's skin.

 

The third finger is almost John's undoing; he clutches at Harold, desperate with need, his breath coming out as a long, winded moan.

 

“Harold,” he gasps, and more and please and _now_ , and it takes another tug of Harold's hand in his hair to focus his attention on the foil package Harold presses into his hand. It's a joint effort, getting the condom on Harold, John lingering over the task, unable to resist running his hands along Harold's cock, sharp tugs that make him press into John with raw need. He stops when Harold grabs hold of his wrist, a look of wistful longing on his face.

 

“Get on your stomach, John.”

 

Harold keeps a hand on him, a steadying weight as they navigate their positions, John with a pillow under him, Harold behind him, pressing close and then, finally, into John. John shudders, his body strung taut with the effort of keeping still, of not moving into Harold like he wants to, but Harold's hand on his back stays him.

 

“Oh, _John_...”

 

The quiet little hitch in Harold's voice makes John twist his head back to look at him; there's a kind of despairing wonder in Harold's eyes, his face aglow with it, like he can't bring himself to believe that John is real, and his to take.

 

“ _Please_ , Harold,” and Harold jerks his head, composes himself, his hand on John's back stroking him once, so very careful that John's heart stutters with it.

 

Forever seems to come and go before Harold stretches out on top of him, starting out with small, careful thrusts. He slides a hand under John, finding his cock, curling his fingers tight and tighter until each of John's breaths ends on a grunt. His mouth finds the back of John's neck where he laps at the sweat pooling there, long, measured licks in time with his thrusts and the pull of his fingers and it's heaven, it must be, it feels so good.

 

John has given up all semblance of rhythm; he exists in a place that belongs wholly to Harold, now: the rise and fall of his weight stretched out on top of John, the searing heat of his mouth, the careful drag of his cock inside of John. His voice in John's ear, too, and it's that voice that ties everything together, it's always been.

 

“Now, John,” he whispers, low and coaxing, “come now. _For me_.”

 

The pressure in the pit of his stomach mounts sharply, then crests; John comes with his face pressed into the sheets, his mouth stretched wide open, everything blacked out by the force of his release. He's dimly aware of Harold's hand grabbing his where it rests next to his head, the firm, sure pressure of it as Harold tenses above him, riding out his own release.

 

They're boneless, after; Harold is warm and heavy on top of him, his weight tangible to John with each breath, real and undeniable. He's the first of them to stir, lifting himself off and away with a grunt. John gives him a moment to take care of the practicalities, then pulls him close again, sealing their mouths together. Harold lets him, his mouth stretching into a smile, the curve of it warm and pleasant against John's lips.

 

“Oh, one more thing,” Harold murmurs, like he's only now remembered, and slides a hand between their bodies, his fingers tracing a path through the sticky mess on John's stomach, making him squirm and then gasp when Harold _tastes_ him, a calculating look on his face. John nearly crushes him, he's so quick to chaste the taste right into Harold's mouth, tiny little licks that leave Harold panting.

 

“For next time,” he says, when John lets him come up for air again, and there's that smile again, warm and slow, for John alone to see. “If you want it.”

 

John traces his fingers up Harold's face, along the sweep of his ear, then to his mouth, where Harold presses a kiss to his fingers.

 

“How could I not want it,” John whispers, his mouth to Harold's ear, where it's safe for him to let the words pour out.

 

Harold twists awkwardly to bring their mouths together again, his kiss gentle, knowing. They fit together nicely, worn out and sated as they are, more so after John wipes them down with a corner of the ruined sheet, leaving slightly less of a mess for later. Later, and next time; the words curl pleasantly in his gut, a sweet and heavy warmth, not unlike the drowsy press of Harold's body against his.

 

“I've never properly thanked you for getting me back, have I?”

 

Harold props himself up on an elbow, studying John while he lets his fingers trail along the length of John's arm.

 

“As thank-yous go, this is pretty nice.” John gives a small smile, no more than a brief lifting of the corners of his mouth.

 

“I'm serious, John. You've put your life at risk, everything we've accomplished together, in fact, to safe my life. And perhaps I should be angry, but, well... thank you.”

 

Harold's fingers smooth over his brow, then down the side of his face to rest on his cheek.

 

“It's good to have you back,” John says, softly, trying to duck his head, away from Harold's searching gaze, but Harold's fingers on his chin won't let him hide. He swallows, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It felt like I didn't even know where I was when you weren't around.”

 

“John, you're the single most capable person I have ever met. So very good at what you do. At what I'm asking you to do. Good with people, too. You could be anywhere you wanted to be.”

 

Harold kisses him lightly on the lips, more benediction than caress, and John rubs his cheek against Harold's hand, aching for the simple comfort of his touch. 

 

“I'm right where I want to be.” No more hiding as he says it, full disclosure, his eyes locked on Harold's, letting him see the truth of it. This is as far as he can make himself go, as far as his trust will ever reach, but Harold meets him halfway, smiling tremulously, his gaze shining with fondness.

 

“John... For you to place yourself under my care... it's humbling, and I feel honored, you must know that.”

 

“For you to take me in, in spite of everything you knew about me...”

 

“ _Because_ of it, John.”

 

_ I know exactly everything about you - _ presumptuous two years ago, the words are now spun out between them like a promise.

 

John can believe in it, in them; he falls asleep to the sound of Harold's even breathing, one arm slung about him, as safe as he'll ever be.

 

 

 

Fin.


End file.
